


Luna Bellum

by theredhoodie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Apocalypse, Death, F/M, M/M, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 03:51:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredhoodie/pseuds/theredhoodie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mountain ash and wolfsbane smoking, bat wielding badass Stiles in a world overtaken by werewolves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Luna Bellum

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by nininghasfeelings’ lovely fanart ([one](http://nininghasfeelings.tumblr.com/post/30201384158) & [two](http://nininghasfeelings.tumblr.com/post/31701429289)). Check out her tumblr, her work is lovely. I’ve had this written for a while (since early January), but I had to find the time to get the energy and inspiration back to turn this fic into what it is now and add finishing touches.

I learned at an early age that life was unfair. Good people die, bad people live on. The world  _sucks_.

And that was even before I learned about werewolves. As in, people who were super strong and had a bloodlust under the full moon. My best friend, Scott, got bitten one night and our lives were never the same. I was just brought along for the ride, the spazzy, human sidekick.

Sidekick.  _Right_. Those were the days, being tossed around by werewolves, beaten up by psychotic hunters, pining for a girl I could never have…sixteen was not the best of years.

But that was before…that was before the  _Luna Bellum._  Lame name, yeah, the  _Moon War_ , but there's really no other way to describe it.

Werewolves.

Everywhere.

Biting people, killing humans, killing other werewolves. It was a bloodbath. No one knows what sparked it, but Deaton wondered if it had some connection with an ancient Egyptian prophecy. He was ripped in half before he ever found out though.

It's funny…he was one of the few people no one ever thought could actually die. We took advantage, used him and barely said a thank you and then just like that, in a bloody tidal wave, he was gone.

He wasn't the only one. Humans, werewolves, other such creatures, they were all easy to pick off. No one was safe. Alphas didn't just fight for power, they killed for it. And they left rivers of blood in their wake.

It all started at the end of 2012. Maybe the Mayans were right; maybe this was what they meant by the end of the world. A war sparked right in Beacon Hills, between hunter and wolf, between the Alpha pack and Derek Hale's pack…maybe it did start the end of the world.

_No one knows exactly how it started_. Only, suddenly there was a rise in violent animal deaths on the news. Not just in America either, but on other continents. Something sparked a power frenzy and wolves were suddenly out in the open.

It took only a few months before they were exposed. It was hard to ignore the signs: most of the killings during full moons, people killed by slashing, bone crushing claws and jaws, dozens upon dozens of those who survived the bite suddenly left their lives and began killing.

oOo

Stiles thought he was ready. But what seventeen year old was ready for a war in their backyard? Like, literately, in his backyard. Stiles and his dad were barred up in their house along with Melissa McCall and the Argents. They had weapons enough to fend off a small army, a  _friendly_  werewolf pack prowling the streets, trying to protect the citizens.

There were other people living in cellars and thinking they could wait it out. There was nothing they— _humans_ —could do except rely on wolfsbane bullets and silver tipped arrows. They were just trying to survive.

They were all huddled in the living room. Stiles' nerves weren't having it and he was bouncing and moving and tapping and blinking like a nutjob because the windows were boarded and he felt more than closed in. Allison was hard faced, as was her dad, Melissa was in the basement and the Sheriff…he was too soft for this. Stiles had always known…maybe that's why Stiles had never pushed to tell him about werewolves before all of this happened.

Someone walked over and put their hand on Stiles' hand…he didn't remember if it was Allison or his dad, but then there was the noise of someone being thrown through the fence in the backyard followed by snarling and roaring.

Everyone scrambled for weapons but Stiles. It was stupid of him, but he had been in this werewolf world without anything to protect him for a year…he could handle it if he stayed out of the way.

There wasn't much time before the noise died down with a whine and someone hit the back door in the kitchen, where Stiles was standing. Stiles jumped back and the Sheriff shoved Stiles behind him. The door was hit again, nails pulling from boards, boards from the door, before it swung inward.

It was Derek, with the arm of a limp and groaning Scott flung across his shoulders.

Allison gasped and rushed forward and Derek shoved aside the table to lay Scott out on the floor. Mr. Argent went to close up the doorway, looking outside and doing god knows what type of hunter's deductions in his head.

"What happened?" Stiles asked. He didn't know who his question was aimed at, but no one answered.

"Those wounds are from an Alpha," Derek said, waving his hand down at Scott. He was leaning against the counter, one bloody hand gripping the edge. He looked like shit. "They'll take longer to heal, but they  _will_  heal."

Scott and Allison were mumbled amongst themselves and the Sheriff was standing off to the side. He didn't know what to do. Stiles didn't either.

"Don't, I'm going back out," Derek told Chris, who was working on securing the door again.

"What, no!" Words and actions were out of Stiles' control and he was suddenly grabbing Derek's shirt by the collar. He and Stiles both knew his human grip meant nothing to the Alpha, that Derek could walk away without a hitch of breath, but he stopped and looked back at Stiles and Stiles didn't know what to say then, because he expected Derek to look pissed but he just looked tired.

"Erica, Boyd…Isaac, Jackson, they're all out there, I need to be with them," Derek said finally. And he did something weird. He actually reached up and grabbed Stiles' wrist and forced his arm back toward his body. Then Derek really left.

oOo

Dad needed me, so I stayed. The wolves kept fighting, a few more humans converged on the Stilinski house and we were slowly building our own resistance. The hardest part was going out for supplies, like food.

This was like one of my video games, only this was real life and it wasn't nearly as fun.

It didn't take long before the world outside was a complete mess. Politics, money, jobs…none of it mattered. All that mattered was survival.

And that's why I started.

Maybe it was a bad idea…but it was done after much research. Just the right amount of the right kind of wolfsbane mixed with mountain ash and a few other things for taste…rolled and lit and smoked like a cigarette. To keep me alive, I told everyone. The wolfsbane and mountain ash would, hypothetically and after some time, reject a werewolf bite if I were to get one, but the herbs wouldn't kill me.

And who knew it would be the perfect thing to calm my nerves so I wasn't a spastic lunatic all the time.

Dad didn't like it. He didn't know half the things I did to keep us alive.

But even that wasn't enough.

Because everyone has an expiration date.

But why did it have to be my birthday?

Eighteen is the big one. I was supposed to be getting ready for college, maybe have gotten a girlfriend by then, at least  _kissed_  someone, maybe gotten a summer job and bought better parts for my Jeep.

Instead, I was smoking were-rettes, as I called them, and practicing my swing. That's right, swing. Don't ask me why the baseball bat…it was just the bluntest instrument around, some time after that first crash into the Stilinski house, when I needed to defend myself. Thanks to lacrosse I had a pretty mean swing and owned a series of bats, wooden and aluminum.

Scott was standing guard with me. No one…no human went anywhere without a wolf with them, that was just how the world worked now. You got used to it.

We were in the cellar, and I was having at this punching bag, thinking it was just another day for survival, a packet of homemade were-rettes in my pocket. Scott hated…well all the wolves hated when I smoked it around them because it messed with their control. But that didn't mean I didn't keep them around. Them meaning the wolves. And the were-rettes.

All of a sudden, Scott perked up. I glanced and swung without thinking, smashing the wooden bat into bits when it hit the metal beam.

"Holy shit," I muttered, because who wouldn't be surprised that they could shatter a baseball bat? I was only eighteen and I never even buffed out, I was still all thin and lanky.

"Stiles," Scott said, wearily. He was slow-walking to the stairs leading up.

"What?" I know…it was naive of me to think that just because it was my birthday, nothing could go wrong.

He didn't say anything, only motioned for me to stay and started up the stairs. He should have known that telling me to stay would make me do the opposite.

For once, I should have listened to him.

I can't give you much detail, because it was all a blur to me and thinking about it still, after these few years, makes me feel sick.

oOo

There was blood and bodies moving around and barking orders and someone…someone was being carried and laid on the couch and Scott tried to keep Stiles back but he saw the police badge on the torn arm of a jacket and Stiles lost it.

Stiles was no match for the wolves around, that was his dad on the couch, clinging to the edge of death. His hands were slick with blood but Stiles held them and the Sheriff said something everyone could hear but no one would understand but his son.

Then he was gone.

Maybe Stiles was supposed to act that way, he just thought he had more dignity. But his father had just died right in front of him and Stiles wasn't having it.

Everything was blurred from tears. No one could touch the Sheriff. People left Stiles alone after he continuously shoved them off. He didn't know how much time passed that he stayed crouched there. The air grew cold and quiet and Stiles couldn't move and the blood on his hands dried.

Then, someone's hands were gripping Stiles' arms and pulling him to his feet. He refused to cooperate, Stiles told them to go away and he barely stayed standing on his own two feet.

"Stiles." He didn't know who it was. He was hearing their voice like you hear something when you're underwater. Muffled and barely there.

"Stiles." Again. But with the added sinking of claws into his skin. He barely felt them.

"Stiles, we have to bury him," accompanied by a slight shake.

"No." Stiles shook his head and swallowed the lump in his throat. "I can't."

"C'mon." Hands eased off Stiles' arms and he was being led around the couch. He couldn't see his dad from there.

Stiles tried turning back, but… "Derek…move." He knew there was no way Derek was going to move out of Stiles' way and there was no way that the human could make the Alpha do anything. The words were feeble and Stiles couldn't even look Derek in the eye.

"No."

"Derek." Stiles was being stupid. He actually took a step forward and bumped chests with Derek. He really wanted to punch the werewolf. Stiles remembered that much. He would later be glad that he didn't. He would have broken his hand for sure.

"No, Stiles." He took Stiles by the shoulders again, held him at arms length and pushed Stiles back, away, into the bathroom and forced him down on the toilet.

Stiles couldn't see the living room from there but he tried. He bobbed and weaved, but his legs were shaking so he couldn't even stand.

Derek crouched in front of him, grabbed Stiles' hands and rubbed them with a warm towel. Stiles looked down to see red staining the cloth. Red…blood…his father's.

"What happened?" Stiles croaked out.

Derek wasn't looking at him. "He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was a trap."

Stiles swallowed as the feeling started coming back to his hands.

"He was…admirable, but…" Derek paused. His whole body…he didn't move or talk for what seemed like an eternity before, "…but he wasn't cut out for this life of survival."

Stiles knew that. Stiles had always known that. His dad was a sheriff of a small town…he wasn't a fighter of werewolves; there was a big difference. "Did—" but he never got his question out because it bubbled into a sob.

Derek looked up at him. Stiles couldn't see the wolf very well. "I'm sorry, Stiles." Derek meant every word. He knew how this felt. He knew how it felt to lose someone, to watch someone's life slip away from them right in front of you.

Stiles slumped back and closed his eyes. He tried to breathe, he tried to imagine he was somewhere else, somewhere where his family was alive again and survival wasn't on the top of his priority list.

"He saw you before he…" Derek's voice sliced through Stiles' fantasy. He had stopped cleaning Stiles' hands and was standing at the sink.

Stiles scoffed. "It didn't do him any good."

Stiles don't know why Derek did it…or maybe he did, deep down, but Stiles looked at him bitterly, like this was his fault, and Derek  _took it_. Derek didn't say anything, only closed the door and slid down the wall, sitting on the floor and pressing his boots against the sink cabinet. He didn't say a thing. He crossed his arms and closed his eyes and stayed.

Stiles could hear them moving the body outside the door. And he was stuck in a bathroom with Derek Hale. Eventually the toilet seat got uncomfortable and he sat on the floor, facing Derek. It was a small bathroom, so his feet pressed the wall by Derek's elbow and Stiles' leg fell onto Derek's thigh and it was fine. They didn't say anything. Stiles closed his eyes and a little while later, felt Derek's hand on his knee, warm and comforting.

oOo

I stopped celebrating birthdays after that.

They buried him in the back yard. People say I was never the same after that. I guess they were right.

I smoked more.

I broke more bats over werewolves' heads.

I spent more time with Derek.

It wasn't good times. But I left the house more…helped take down more werewolves…felt more useful.

oOo

Life was shit. There were lots of tame wolves and humans who lived at the Stilinski house. The humans died more often than the wolves, but the wolves weren't safe either. There were always more Alphas with bigger packs and more power.

Then came the night Erica died. She had her throat ripped out by another wolf…one that could morph into the Wolfman-type shape, like Peter Hale had been able to do. Boyd almost went down with her, but instead he ran. No one knows what happened to him.

Derek blamed himself. She was his Beta, his pack, his bite had turned her, and he blamed himself more than he had for any other death thus far. If he blamed himself for every one he would have been crushed under the weight of his own guilt.

After he washed more or less all of the blood away, Derek ventured upstairs. Stiles' room was still his room, though there was no longer any window to climb through and there were a handful of weapons and a wall of baseball bats replacing video games.

"We buried her across the road," Derek said.

"I know. I was there." Stiles shoved the end of the were-rette out the crack in the window and waved his hands around as if that would get rid of the  _toxins_  in the air. Derek had gotten somewhat used to them, but he would always sneeze whenever he walked into a puff of smoke.

Derek fell like a bag of bones onto the end of the mattress. "I don't see a point to this."

Stiles frowned. It had barely been two years since this whole thing started. It was a loosing battle…there was nothing but bloodshed and no one was gaining an upper hand. Another few years and the human population would be diminished. Stiles would become an endangered species.

"To what?" Stiles stood at the edge of the bed, watching. That certain hunch of shoulders, elbows on knees, head bowed. Stiles knew that look. It was a defeated look. Derek Hale felt defeated.

"To everything, Stiles. Fighting, killing…there is no fucking point." He looked up and turned at his waist to look at Stiles.

Stiles wondered how much different he looked to the Alpha. Stiles' hair was longer—he really couldn't keep up with it—and his eyes were darker, but he still looked like Stiles. Derek…he still looked like him, except he was more tired and he no longer held an air of faux knowledge and swagger.

"Really? So…keeping me and everyone in this house alive for years…means nothing?" Stiles wasn't angry.

Derek thought he was. He was getting rusty at knowing emotions, with his mind elsewhere more often than not. "That's not what I meant—"

"Then you meant…we should just roll over and get ourselves killed or bitten and go around killing other people?" Stiles shrugged and turned around to poke around his old desk. A gun and a box of ammunition sat atop the laptop and showed no signs that this was the room of an eighteen year old and not some war veteran.

"Stiles…no, fuck, that's not what I meant!"

Stiles wasn't looking at anything in particular, but his back was to Derek. He could hear Derek stand and move, even without werewolf senses.

"So you're not giving up?" Stiles poked and prodded. Derek wasn't one to share things; this was the only way Stiles knew how to get him to talk about anything seriously.

"I'm never—" He came up behind, forcing a leg between Stiles' and slipping a hand under Stiles' shirt, rough fingers scraping across skin. "—giving anything up. Not anyone. Not you."

His cheek pressed against Stile's shoulder blade and heaved a sigh.

"Good. It's a two-way street, buddy."

oOo

Derek and I were never easy. There was always blood and death hanging around us. His lips burned when he kissed me because of the mountain ash and the wolfsbane but it didn't sway him. Things were hard and fast, but quiet between us. There wasn't much we could do without everyone knowing, but it was the end of the fucking world, so who cared?

Years passed and things got worse before they got better.

Alpha's killed each other too often and packs became too large and confused, so they started killing each other off. The remaining humans were hiding like we were…on the constant edge of fear, waiting for things to get bad again.

But they didn't. They simmered.

I never paid much mind to how the world started to get back onto its feet, but it was around the time Allison said she was pregnant. With little furry wolf babies.

It was around then when we started to walk outside during the day and not fear getting torn to pieces…that was still reserved for the night.

The first trip out I took with Derek was one of these days. We went to the clinic to pilfer what was left of Deaton's herbs for my were-rettes and ended up fucking on the table where I almost had to chop off his arm eons before.

It was weird, being free and able to go out and not fear for your life.

But it was still a far cry from how life was before.

There were so many bodies to dispose of. There were military-reserves who banded together to dig pits and burn the dead because there were just too many bodies.

The smoke choked the air everywhere you went, the scent of death and burning flesh. Times that it got bad, Derek would press his nose against my skin and drown out the smell with my scent.

Derek didn't make any new werewolves. He never bit anyone after Boyd, who had run away and was probably in one of those fires. Cheerful as fuck little daisies grew up over Erica's grave like a slap in the face. Jackson had run with Lydia north, and we never knew what happened to them either.

In the end, it was Derek and I, Allison and Scott, Mr. Argent and Melissa McCall and that was it from the actual originals of Beacon Hills. Everyone else had showed up along the way, human and wolf both. We weren't a family, we were a survival unit. Things were different between us than it had ever been with Derek and Scott's  _packs_.

We were more alone than together...there wasn't a pack, there were just people. Mr. Argent tried to find the safest house in town to ransack and give to Scott and Allison. He and Melissa ended up living there too, to help out and I don't know what. We kept in touch. We never  _left_  Beacon Hills, but there was so much to do and half the time Derek and I just spent days locked away inside my house because now that the fighting was over…what the fuck were we supposed to do?

It was difficult to move back to that place we were before…we had been through so much, changed so much…It had been four years or so, I couldn't even remember what I had been doing before the war started. I just knew that I smoked were-rettes every day and never went anywhere without a baseball bat, it was a peeve of mine.

There was still fighting…still wolves to get under control, societies to put back together…so we did some of that. Derek left often to deal with wolf business.

I slouched around town with my bat and my were-rettes and classically hilarious red hoodie, acting the part of the sheriff even though I looked nothing like it and no one took me seriously until they saw my eyes and realized I wasn't just telling stories.

I really had killed a werewolf with just a bat.

And I had almost been killed by one near the end of the war, and I had the scars on my back to prove it. Derek almost went off the deep end when that happened.

I had the sheriff's name and I knew how to do some things, I just didn't feel like I should be living that sort of life after what had happened. What the fuck do you do after four years of fighting for survival? Killing and watching friends die and washing so much blood down the sink that the porcelain was stained pink. How do you get over that?

That's the thing.

You don't.

Which is exactly why I spend my days sitting in dark corners, smoking and watching, observing as people started to put lives back together. Neighbors were more friendly now, since they had spent so long depending on one another. Multiple families lived in single homes because the closeness was familiar.

I would watch out for wolves. It was easy to spot them.

I made some sort of reputation for myself without meaning to. My red hoodie was iconic…as was the bat and the always present smell of mystical herbs. Wolves knew who I was before I even had a chance to decide if they were friendly or not.

oOo

It wasn't often that Derek came home broken, which was why recently, when he was helped into the house by Scott and Isaac, I sort of freaked out.

Derek was the strong one. The wolf, the Alpha, the one who healed in an instant. I was the breakable human. Still.

oOo

"What the hell happened?" Stiles barked. Or tried. Derek was set down on the couch—that dreaded fucking couch—and there was blood and dirt on his face and his t-shirt was nothing but shredded material.

"Uh…" It was either Scott or Isaac, Stiles wasn't really paying attention.

Fingers hooked through fabric and ripped Derek's shirt, showing slashed abdomen. "Shit," Stiles hissed, leaning and taking Derek's face between his hands. "Derek."

"I'm fine," he breathed out.

Stiles let out a relieved breath that he was talking. "Fine my ass," he scoffed, glancing down at the wounds. Derek wasn't healing, he should have been healing…Stiles glanced over at Scott and Isaac. "How are you two?"

"Fine," Isaac said, avoiding looking at Stiles.

"We weren't with him," Scott said after a beat.

Stiles frowned. "What?"  _Of course._ Believe or not, Scott was actually a good Beta to Derek once the war started; he would never let Derek get hurt. Stiles narrowed his eyes at Derek and cuffed him on the ear, taking a step back. "You went out alone. Are you  _stupid_?"

Derek eyes opened a sliver. "I'm an Alpha," he protested weakly.

"Jesus Christ, Derek, you barely have a pack, stop playing hero!" Stiles ran a hand through his hair.

Derek tried to glare, but it didn't work so well.

"It was another Alpha," Isaac added.

"I am aware of that, Isaac," Stiles replied, voice a bit louder than he wanted. Everyone knows that a wound to any wolf, Alpha or not, by another Alpha, takes a frighteningly long time to heal compared to normal wolf healing powers.

"Should we stay?" Scott reminded Stiles of back when he could never stay still—Stiles still had that problem, but it was more of an adrenaline overdose than just physically not being able to stay still—and he knew Scott had other things to attend to.

"No, it's fine. Go." Stiles waved a hand and shook his head down at Derek. "Tell Allison hi from me."

The two wolves ducked out of the house and Stiles went over to lock the door—a habit hard broken. It had taken months to even take the boards off the windows; Stiles couldn't go around with unlocked doors.

"You okay?" he asked after giving himself a moment to control his frustration. Nothing good would come out of Stiles slapping around a pale and bleeding werewolf. "Will you be?"

"Yeah," Derek nodded slightly, head resting back against the cushions, eyes closed. There was no way Stiles could move him himself, so Derek would have to stay there until he healed.

"Good." Stiles frowned and ran his fingers through Derek's hair. "Do something stupid like go off to face an Alpha alone again and I will personally beat you with a bat."

"Sounds like a promise."

Joking was a good sign of health, so Stiles just chuckled and walked away to blow off his frustration in the basement with a bat. He had a right to be pissed. Derek had come home beaten up before, but never with his stomach ripped open. He had gone off on his own and that was against the rules. No one left the territory alone, not even the Alpha.

oOo

The "territory" being most of Beacon Hills, held down by Derek, Scott, Isaac and the other wolves that had moved in and stayed with us to fight when the heat went down. There were plenty of humans armed with guns and other things to fight for what was ours…but going outside of the territory was dangerous.

Derek  _knew_  that.

Which is why I ended up breaking a bat and being reminded of the last time there was someone bleeding on the couch and I broke a bat.

Derek was sleeping or just resting when I walked passed, grabbing my hoodie and the bat by the door and going outside. I didn't go far…just up to the roof. It was getting to be late afternoon. Not many people were out…no one liked going out after dark if you didn't have to.

I lay in my normal spot, folded my hands behind my head and stared up into the cloudy sky, bat resting strategically against my leg. It didn't take long before I grabbed out a were-rette and lit up.

I felt like a star in a cheesy teenage drama, contemplating his life. I didn't exactly contemplate my life though; I tried to just block it out and relax.

I rushed inside when the sky suddenly opened and rain poured down. I scrambled off the roof—I might have slipped and fallen on the grass in the front yard but no one was around to witness it—and into the house. Derek wasn't on the couch. The bathroom door was closed.

I stripped off my hoodie and tossed it in the hall and stepped into our room. I peeled off my shirt, skin pale in the dark room. The mirror next to the door showed my scar…or maybe I was just so used to seeing it that I saw it without it even actual being lit up with any light.

My scar wasn't pretty…a nice jagged swipe from left shoulder to right hip, right down my back. Everyone was surprised I survived, and it was a constant reminder of me being  _human_. If I hadn't been inhaling anti-werewolf toxins for years I would have been turned into a wolf.

Derek hated another wolf's mark on me, but it had been months since then and he had scented me enough to make himself feel better. But Derek, even after his stomach near torn open hours before, would have no lines of scar anywhere.

Just as I stripped off half soaked pants, there was a knock on the front door. I froze, pulling up the pants that were pooled around my feet and grabbing the gun sitting on the desk. I didn't bother putting on a shirt. I walked swiftly downstairs, Derek was still in the bathroom, though it was obvious that he would have heard the knock, even over the rush of water.

oOo

There was no peephole, so Stiles held his breath, gun at the ready, and pulled open the door. It took a second to recognize the faces of the two werewolves standing there before Stiles dropped the gun to his waist.

"Lydia! Jackson?" Stiles nearly gasped in surprise. Just then, he felt Derek come up behind him, a damp hand falling onto his bare shoulder. "What…what are you doing here? We thought you were dead!"

"Sorry to disappoint, Stilinski," Jackson replied. He looked different. Less jerk-of-a-jock and more on-the-run-wolf. His hair was longer. Like actually long, hitting his shoulders, his clothes were rough and torn, hunting clothes. And slightly damp. The rush of rain had fallen to a drizzle.

"Lydia is…" Derek started.

"A werewolf," Lydia finished for him. Her hair was messy and long, pulled back in a thick braid, her face dirty. She looked wild.

"Werewolf," Stiles breathed. He had never thought of Lydia ever being a werewolf, not after she had evaded turning after Peter's bite.

A bright smile broke through the grime on her face and she was old Lydia again. "I would hug you but…" Her words were directed at Stiles.

"Oh, I know. The wolfsbane and mountain ash. I get it. You haven't had years to get used to it. It'll be a while before you can even touch me, and even then it'll burn," Stiles rambled, turning back into the motormouth he used to be. "It's totally cool, I understand. Like…you can imagine the first time Derek tried to—"

"Stiles!" Derek growled, obviously not wanting to indulge the young wolves into what had painfully happened the first time he and Stiles had sex.

Stiles grinned, slipping an arm around Derek, pressing his fingers against his boyfriend's ribs. "Well you can imagine what—"

"I get it, Stiles, no need to embarrass Derek more," Lydia said. It surprised Stiles how unaffected Lydia and Jackson seemed to be about Stiles and Derek being together, but he didn't push to ask why. "Can we…come in?"

"Oh right, yeah." Stiles stepped back and Derek disappeared from the entranceway. The house looked practically the same as before; but it had the obvious scent of blood and battles here.

Lydia and Jackson sat in the oversized armchair, Lydia sitting comfortably in Jackson's lap. To think, just four years earlier and such a sight would have made Stiles green with envy. But now, it just made him happy that she had found someone to be with.

"You have scars, Stiles," she said softly, just as Derek came back from upstairs, wearing a shirt. He joined Stiles next to the couch.

Stiles rolled his eyes at the attention. Who cared about his scars when Lydia Martin was a werewolf? But he answered anyway. "Yeah. Fighting werewolves will do that," he said simply, not caring to add in details. "Speaking of…how did you turn into a werewolf?"

Lydia glanced at Jackson before lowering her arms. "We ran to Canada and Jackson joined a passive pack."

"Passive?" Stiles scoffed out, eyebrows reaching his hairline. "Is there such a thing?

"Yes," she said firmly. "I got injured by a mugging, of all things, when I was in the nearby town. The Alpha of the pack turned me to solidify Jackson's alliance to him."

"So you've been a werewolf for a while?" Derek asked, arm lying on the back of the couch, fingers brushing against the back of Stiles' neck, tickling him.

"Over three years, yes," Lydia gave a sad smile. "Are Allison…is Allison still alive?"

Stiles and Derek exchanged glances. "Yeah. Alive and with bun in the oven," Stiles replied.

Lydia's face brightened. "She's pregnant? That's wonderful. Isn't that great, Jackson?"

"Sure," Jackson replied. He didn't sound annoyed , he just sounded tired.

"Um…you're free to use the shower. You guys can go visit them…but I think Melissa would freak if you go over all…dirty," Stiles waved his hand in their direction.

Lydia jumped to her feet. "I'll go first." She first disappeared outside, then came back with two bags, dropping one next to Jackson in the chair and bringing the other with her into the bathroom. It wasn't long before the water was turned on.

"I can't believe you guys are still together," Stiles sat forward and shook his head.

Jackson didn't protest. High school sweethearts don't always stay together, especially through a war. "You two…I'm more surprised about you two," he waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Stiles trolled his eyes and slapped a hand down on Derek's thigh. "Why? Werewolves don't do the gay thing?"

"No," Jackson snorted. "I didn't think you would ever realize you swing both ways, Stilinski."

"One way now," Stiles protested. One way or the highway, he sang into his head. "Once you go wolf, you never go back." He might be putting on a show, since he was still half-fuming inside at Derek for going off and being nearly killed.

Jackson shook his head. "Surprised you're still alive, actually."

"I can hold my own," Stiles said. "Haven't you heard of me? I'm famous in Beacon Hills these days. I walk around with a baseball bat, going all  _Inglourious Basterds_  on any foe-wolves."

Jackson raised an eyebrow. "A baseball bat?"

"Yep. I killed my first werewolf with one…I've never been a good shot," Stiles admitted. Being human, he obviously needed more weapons than a bat, hence the numerous guns hidden about the house. He was getting better at shooting targets, but it wasn't his strong suit. "The thing was half wolf, y'know, all hairy and snouty and its teeth were about to rip out my throat. I managed to get my bat and smash it in its face, and got to my feet and slammed the bat against its skull…the bat splintered and slashed out its throat and there was blood everywhere."

"He almost suffocated under the body," Derek mumbled.

Stiles heard him. "No need to hurt my ego, Derek," Stiles said through slightly clenched teeth.

"Where is everyone else?" Jackson asked, trying to avoid the lovers feud beginning in front of him.

Derek's eyes suddenly darkened and Stiles sucked in a breath just before Lydia popped out of the bathroom, looking magically like her old self, wet hair falling to her waist, face free of makeup, wearing a simple t-shirt and cargo pants.

"Jackson, you smell, get in there," she wrinkled her nose in a very wolfie way that almost put Stiles on edge. He had always thought that he and Lydia would be the two people to never be turned into wolves, and it was difficult to see her as one, as happy as she looked.

oOo

Lydia, being Lydia, pestered us with questions about  _us._  Derek didn't say much, I said a bit, only mentioning the briefest of things, and before long, we were all walking outside. The rain had stopped, thankfully, and walking the streets with three werewolves made me feel pretty damn invincible. I had pulled on an actual shirt and changed my wet pants, so we all looked presentable.

Lydia saw Erica's grave and pulled on my arm, asking me about it. I told her in whispers, hoping that Derek wouldn't hear. Erica's death stung him the most, even after time had passed.

The house that the Argents and McCalls shared was big, enough to have four bedrooms and two bathrooms and huge living room. Isaac just happened to be there when we arrived and it was the original team back together again. At least, all of us that were alive.

Lydia started crying over the babies, being able to hear their heartbeats. Both she and Allison spent a majority of the night together, half of it spent crying. Melissa made enough food to feed an army and Allison's belly was rubbed more times than I could keep count of. I don't even know how the hell she could stand it, but she looked about the size of an elephant—a very pretty elephant—and seemed powerless to stop anyone.

Gathered around a large dining room table, squished together with loud conversation and potatoes and an entire turkey—why we were eating a whole turkey at nine at night, I don't even know but Melissa had been cooking it when we arrived for some reason—and things felt normal. As if there wasn't a war, and everyone who wasn't here were just alive somewhere else.

It was a false sense of security that was good to feel for nearly six hours before Derek and I left. There wasn't enough room in my house for two more wolves, not when I was still furious at Derek and Allison and Scott's house had an extra bedroom.

oOo

Derek and Stiles didn't talk all the way home. It wasn't unusual, but Stiles grew more and more angry the closer they got to the house. He didn't say a thing, only wrenched open the front door and made his way upstairs. He didn't stomp, but he very much wanted to. And maybe punch a wall.

They had lost so much, and yet it was coming back to them, by way of Jackson and Lydia. Scott and Allison were going to have twins in a month and everyone seemed happy, while Stiles were here, stuck with a moody Alpha werewolf that he couldn't shake.

Speaking of shake, his hands were doing so as he began unlacing his boots, sitting in the dark at the end of the bed in the room. His room.  _Their_ room.

"Stiles." Derek appeared in the doorway, blocking whatever light had been filtering up the stairs—there hadn't been much.

"Don't, Derek," Stiles warned, yanking off his boots and tossing them aside. He stood and pulled his shirt off over his head.

Derek frowned, walking to Stiles and stopping just behind him. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, voice soft, breath on Stiles' ear.

"Take off your pants," Stiles demanded, as he himself undid the button and zipper of his jeans and kicked them off. He turned around, took a step back and faced Derek, crossing his arms. "C'mon," he pressed, arching an eyebrow.

Derek shook his head at Stiles' ridiculousness. But Stiles felt he deserved to be a bit ridiculous, after the stunt Derek pulled just hours before—okay it was more like nine hours before, but still, it was  _hours_  before. The Alpha submitted and lost his shirt and pants, leaving him naked.

Like Stiles knew he wouldn't, Derek didn't have any scars from before. Stiles walked forward, still in his boxers, and ran his fingertips over Derek's abdomen. Not even the slightest bump of healed skin. Stiles felt both cheated and scared at the fact.

No matter that Lydia was a werewolf now, he didn't want to be one. Ever. He felt like he would lose himself it he ever did.

Not wanting to speak, Stiles put a hand around the back of Derek's neck and kissed him roughly, pressing his bare chest against Derek's; the muscles, Derek's rough fingertips on his back, it was all familiar.

It took little for Derek to grow long and hard, and Stiles was never one good at keeping control. Stiles moved kisses with teeth along Derek's jaw, down his throat, chest, and then he was crouching and Derek had a rumble growing in his chest as Stiles teased him, not doing anything for what seemed like at least ten minutes before Stiles licked the end of Derek's cock, wrapping his lips around and doing things with his tongue that were nothing but a tease of the highest order.

It ended too quickly and Stiles stood, pushing Derek backward. The wolf needed little prodding to crawl onto the bed and Stiles lost his boxers, stroking himself a handful of times and letting Derek watch, propped up on his elbows, before Stiles crawled over him.

Stiles' knees dug into the mattress on either side of Derek's hips, Derek's fingers digging into Stiles' own, cocks rigid against each other. Derek rumbled when Stiles leaned forward and sensitive heads touched.

"Stiles..."

"I refuse to speak with you," Stiles replied, grabbing a fist full of Derek's hair and kissing him hard.

Derek grumbled something, lost when Stiles tugged at his bottom lip. "We should talk," he huffed, taking Stiles by the waist and nearly tossing him onto the other side of the mattress. The cold space between them didn't last, Derek pressed against Stiles and reached...

"You want to talk now?" Stiles narrowed his eyes and ran hands down familiar muscles to Derek's base and gripping none-too-gently.

Derek's hand was flat against Stiles' stomach. "No but you're angry."

The strokes of Stiles' hands were rough. "Yeah." He stopped and shifted himself more onto his back. "I am. Why don't you make me forget that I'm angry with you?"

Stiles was radiating heat and anger and lust and it would be impossible to say no.

Derek moved closer and pressed lips and teeth against Stiles's neck, hands moving out of memory, one finger finding entrance and Stiles let out a puff of air.

"Cheater," Stiles growled, going back to handling Derek, though he didn't need it.

"Both."

"Both?" Stiles didn't even remember what he'd been mad about. His hands fell to a familiar stroke on both him and Derek. Two fingers inside and Stiles was through with this foreplay shit. "Fuck, Derek... just-just fuck me."

This was far from their first time. Stiles was on his stomach in a blink and Derek pushed inside him; they fit and moved rhythmically together. Even in an empty house they weren't loud, most of Stiles' words lost in the mattress and Derek never said more than Stiles' name once, twice, amid rumbles of pleasure. Derek's thrusts were deep and fast and Stiles gripped the blanket and gasped out an "oh fuck" and Derek growled out and came. Stiles felt him quiver and the press of skin against skin as Derek did his wolf-thing and nuzzled Stiles' neck before pulling himself out. Stiles hasn't touched himself the whole time and let out a groan as Derek pushed him over onto his back.

"Now you," Derek said. Before Stiles could answer, Derek's lips were around his cock.

"Jesus fuck, you...really want me to forget," Stiles huffed out. Derek didn't do blowjobs...well he liked them, but he rarely gave them thanks to the anti-werewolf herbs that Stiles had been absorbing for years. So yeah, Derek was obviously going all out to be forgiven.

He was so close it didn't even take a minute for him to finish and explode between Derek's lips. Less than another minute later, Derek was kissing him with a mouth that tasted like Stiles and he had almost forgotten what he had been angry about.

"I'm sorry," Derek said.

"Apology accepted," Stiles said, sleepily. He was itching for an after-sex smoke but he didn't want to move. Derek's arm was thrown across his chest, head nestled in the crook of his neck, scruff scraping his skin. "Just...just don't go off on your own out of territory again. The war might be over but..."

"I know," Derek breathed. "It won't happen again."

"Better not," Stiles murmured, fingertips making circles through Derek's hair.

They didn't say much else but dozed off.

oOo

I got up after a while. Derek hadn't slept all that much after his fight, and he needed to build his strength, Alpha or no Alpha. His pack…the only ones still loyal to him were Scott and Isaac. It wasn't enough to make him as strong as we all needed him to be.

I showered and wondered how Lydia and Jackson were, how Allison and Scott and Isaac were doing with seeing their old friends. I still hadn't quite processed the fact that Lydia was a werewolf, or that I would be an honorary godfather in a few weeks—Scott was incapable of keeping that a secret from me for any longer and had told me a few weeks ago—so my mind was whirling. I could use a walk, even though it was past three in the morning.

Instead, I resolved for another night on the roof. I grabbed a pack of were-rettes, pulled on plaid pajama pants and crawled up to the attic with one of my many trusty bats at my side. I lit a stick and lay back against the shingles, staring at the sky. The moon was a sliver, stars littered the sky. You could see it even from here, deep in the middle of town.

I was only twenty, but I felt a lot older than that. So much had happened; I had lost so much, but I had also gained a whole hell of a lot in the way of an alpha werewolf that resembled a grumpy cat. I knew better than the dwell on the past, or I would get lost in it.

All I knew was that Derek needed me around. I kept him together. Who knows what would have happened after Erica's death if I hadn't been around. I did't like to think about it. I would, however, think of the countless werewolf deaths I had under my belt, and how I was still that person that people like Allison and Scott and Lydia and Jackson and Isaac and Melissa, and maybe even Chris, see as family, a protector in my own right. I know, deep down, that I won't let anything or anyone harm those close to me. And everyone else knows it as well.

I took a long drag and held it in, keeping my arm behind my head like a pillow, staring and thinking and finally letting the smoke out of my nose.

So, if you're ever in Beacon Hills, and if you ever see a guy with a baseball bat wearing a red hoodie smoking what would appear to your eyes as cigarettes, you can be pretty sure it's Stiles Stilinski and I can either save you or break you. Your choice.


End file.
